[ To some degree, it feels like they all take turns being the party's center of pity, with catastrophe after catastrophe nearly forcing their hands. It'd be funny if they weren't so seemingly powerless in the flow of things; the blessing is that they're all in it together, as opposed to a single person being forced to air all of their dirty laundry at once. (Still, had he acted out when it'd come to be his turn? Definitely, yes.)
But, more importantly: ]
In an hour, then.
[ It's a blessing that she chooses the place, as it occurs to him fairly late in their back and forth that he hadn't really thought through what they'd do should she agree. The suggestion gives him something to do β namely, pack a small basket, which triggers a couple of warring instincts within him almost immediately. The first problem is what to bring β what won't seem like he's trying too hard while demonstrating that he has put some thought into this. (He settles on a bottle of wine, Blingdenstone Blush, and a few apples; it's too early for lunch β and arguably too early to be drinking, really β and it seems like enough to mark effort, given that he can't have any of it, anyway.) The second is just how much of a show to make of it; to point it out would signal desperation, but also invite acknowledgment; to ignore it would help him seem more nonchalant, but allow the praise he so craves to pass by.
Ultimately, he chooses not to say anything about it, instead simply getting to his feet and raising a hand in greeting when he notices her arriving. (He's changed into a fresh shirt, distinguished by a tiny bit of filigree around the collar.) ]
[ her arrival is spaced from his, with just enough time between their respective departures from camp, as to not be horribly obvious where she's sneaking off to. gale's nose sits predictably in the pages of a dusty tome; wyll, she assumes, is too courteous of a gentleman to point out their coincidental absences; as for the druids, they seem to know to mind their own. if any of their companions have suspicions, they've thought better than to voice them to her — a form of respect and discretion she finds herself grateful for, as she quietly slips between an outcropping of trees.
(some secrets, she has learned over time, deserve the extra protection from outside interference.)
daylight speckles through the trees, beams off lakewater, from where she draws nearer. she can't deny the locale had been a deliberate, if not subconsciously deliberate, choice; common as sunlight must be to him now, it's bright here, refracted off the crystalline water. perfect for people like them, who have doused themselves in shadow for so long that they've forgotten the touch of something warmer. (it's wishful, fanciful thinking that it might help them melt it from their bones — but it's no accident, either, that she's opted for leathers that shine silver, today. another new, small change.)
a floral, soapy scent does, poetically, seem to subtly trail her steps, growing only minimally stronger once she's come to a pause in front of him. ]
I didn't want to tempt you with a perfume made from blood and death. I know that's your preferred fragrance.
[ a faint curl to her mouth follows, a touch of good humor that would be easy to miss for less perceptive eyes — like a peek of light through a curtain, subdued and soft. the basket hasn't escaped her sharp notice nor what its effort implies — he'd been more serious than she'd assumed, when he'd mentioned wooing — but her eyes fixate elsewhere, attention tunneled down to the latticework of his collar. her fingers follow her stare, reaching to rub her thumb over its outline.
it's a careful touch — an intention telegraphed to him, even, as she makes it. purposeful in avoiding brushing skin, though just barely, uncertain of where boundaries have been drawn. one sexual encounter shared with one another from a physical distance does not come with a blanket invitation to touch him freely, after all, to say nothing of how — unexpected this all still feels. ]
You've been busy.
[ an untrained ear might hear it as airy small talk over something so minimal as changing clothes, but there's a curiosity to it she can't deny, a wisp of intrigue woven through. ]
Edited (don't tag first thing in the morning or your adhd will remind you hours later that you used THE COMPLETE WRONG WORD lmao π€‘ sorry for my stupidity) 2023-10-02 18:34 (UTC)
[ His gaze β his demeanor as a whole β softens as she draws close, his eyes falling just once to her fingers as they find his shirt before flickering back up to study her face. He stills, seemingly on instinct, but it's an allowance rather than hesitation or tolerance. A little space offered for the care she demonstrates, in acknowledgment of the fact that not everyone would be so cautious. For a long moment, he just looks at her, his hand rising to find hers, gently pressing it flat against his collar, the spread of his palm finding fabric and bare skin in equal measure. Permission.
(On his skin, the faint scent of bergamot, that citrus-y base a lighter choice than one might have expected from him.)
βThe moment ends as though it's pulled from the depths of a pool, breath and time suddenly resume as they break the surface, as his fingers then curl through hers, dropping to their sides as he leads her to the spot he's picked out by the water.
(The sunlight is still a novelty; he's not sure it ever won't be. The warmth of it, the sudden breadth of colors afforded to him, it's all a wonder. It's uncomplicated, too, in a way that whatever this is isn't. It isn't lost on him that she's more careful around him than most would be β more considerate, in a way he's grateful for, even if he doesn't know how to repay that kindness, given that he's only just beginning to adjust to thinking that he deserves it at all.)
Breezily delivered: ]
Busy? Little old me? Hardly.
[ His hand slips away momentarily, as though suddenly aware of the intimacy implied by such a gesture. Not that it'd be so strange, at this point, butβ again, it's new. (Yet another thing that likens him to the nickname she's bestowed upon him: a little bit of hot and cold, as they suss each other out, rather than the more straightforward affection a canine companion would confer.) Still, he turns to look at her again with a sort of expectant air, one that seems at direct odds with the of course you're here, why wouldn't you be air he's aiming for. ]
Busy awaiting the delight of your company, perhaps. [ A beat, and then, somewhat more honestly: ] I was surprised you agreed.
[ she does him the grace of keeping quiet, of failing to point out how obviously he behaves like a creature once bitten and twice shy. (a comparison that's a bit too on the nose, she thinks, for what he is.) neither does she chase his touch, though she finds its absence shockingly ... disappointing. something she finds she misses, as soon as he removes its presence. it's been too long since her hand has known more than pain spiderwebbing down into her fingertips — longer than even she realizes, perhaps.
(in his place, her thumb skates across the wound that decorates the flat back of her hand, more than accustomed to the self-soothing gesture. when you've no one to bring you comfort, you learn to depend upon yourself for it, if not the conviction of your faith. and she is sorely lacking in one of those, in recent times.)
this, too, is equally overt: the intensity that colors his lingering looks, as though he's hoping to crack her open. she supposes she's proven as fickle and resilient against all efforts to do so, not unlike their prized artefact; can't fault him for the attempt to study her, even as it tickles her humor. it's a lonely life, yes, to fail to be understood — but there's a certain pride that emerges, with it, in knowing she's one riddle amongst their party he hasn't managed to fully parse.
now, there's no shying from it, on her end; she meets his stare with piercing directness, unnervingly steady, in how it refuses to skirt away. ]
You should rehearse more believable lies. [ a ghost of self-deprecation worms its way in, sobers her smile. ] I've made for miserable company, lately.
[ (it's hardly designed to invite self-pity. it's merely the truth of the matter, in her period of mourning. even now, she's yet to unpack the full breadth of her grief; doesn't yet have the knowledge to know how deep it must go, with such a large portion of her life denied to her, memories locked up so tightly even astarion's skills would fail to lockpick them free.) ]
But you asked me here all the same, even knowing that. [ in a softer husk, ] Of course I chose to come.
[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric β to protect, guide, and heal β is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]
[ what a group they must make, on second thought, dragging their cloud of misery around with them. still, the first iteration of her smile is as weak as a middling illusion — easily dispelled, easily seen through. astarion's defenses may lie with charm, but she's not immune to presenting a front, herself. her sharran brethren, as she recalls them, have always shared the deadly appetites of wolves; one scent of weakness in the air is as tempting as a copper trail of blood, a reason to sink teeth into a vulnerable underbelly once it's exposed. only strength has ever deterred them from tearing into the throats of their own pack.
that self-preserving appearance is so habitual she doesn't quite realize she's fallen into an old trap, as she comes to a slow seat beside him. a respectable distance remains wedged between them — not so wide a chasm that it's impossible to bridge, but not so close as to be certain over whether she should heed her compulsion to close it.
(as with most skittish creatures, she considers the benefit of allowing him to come to her, instead, and rights herself into a more relaxed posture: a recline into soft grass, laying within the sun's caress, as her fingers interlace across her stomach. distance or closeness, he is right — better miserable together, than to be left miserable alone. the company is a balm to the ache that sits inside of her, most days.)
then, almost as though it's an idle observation than one of her astute ones: ] You seem struck by nerves.
[ the second iteration of her smile might be genuine, but perhaps worse, for how its breezy teasing comes at his expense. the energy radiating from him makes him look the part of a novice, in fact, at courting — though she supposes a dependence upon his pretty face had done well to serve him on its own, up until this point. up until her, especially. her booted foot wiggles out, knocks gently into his calf, as her cheek tilts into the greenery to cast a sideways look at him. ]
I can't fathom why. Of the two of us, I'm not the one with a reputation for my bite.
[ Her comment, along with the prod of her foot, is enough to pry a tsk from Astarion, along with a skeptical raise of one eyebrow as he shifts to lie on his side, head propped up on his hand. (The movement brings him a little closer than he had been before β affirmation as to her instinct to let him take things on his own time.) ]
Perhaps it's excitement, [ he says smoothly, though still lightly enough to be showing a little of his hand. ] I seem you recall you promised me the privilege of choosing my own reward, if I remained on good behavior.
[ But she knows as well as he does that titillation isn't the reason why he's on tenterhooks. He pauses, the line of his mouth briefly twisting as he considers what to say next. It feels less necessary to play coy, somehow, when not shrouded in darkness. And as his lips curl, the rest of his expression seems to unfold, his gaze losing its usual hooded quality to reveal something more openβ something younger than his years. ]
I've never had the pleasure ofβ continuing a courtship, shall we say, [ he offers, his tone calculatedly nonchalant, following a pause. ] Even if I'd wanted to, before, it was hardly in the cards. Nothing was mine. [ Then, a quick amendment: ] Nothing was for me.
[ Another pause. This isn't really a conversation he wants to have β not just for how closely he guards his secrets, but for making this more about him when she's in the middle of such a maelstrom. ]
I guess the point is that I can be nervous, around you. I know you won't flagellate me for it β beyond telling me I'm acting like a fool.
[ He rolls onto his back, then, checking for the basket (resetting the distance between them, having shown a little of his hand). ]
[ The campfire crackles. Her feet are light, shadow hovering at the edge of his tent. A larger, bolder shadow pushes just-a-step further: the bottom-half of a long, grey maw, and a rounded black nose, dares to part the flaps that seal the entrance shut. Manners, Bosky, comes the low reprimand, and the dire wolf retreats with a displeased whine. Shadowheart's luck, that Bosky's taken such a liking to sniffing and rifling and just being near Astarion's things.
Tav apologizes, of course. She knows that he likes things — his things, particularly — just as they are, without any wolf-shed. But Bosky is still an animal companion, not a fey-spirit familiar, and he has a willy little mind of his own, however stubborn it is.
Slender fingers hook into the scruff of the wolf's neck to stop any more advances. Tav hates waking any of them from rest, sleep or trance, but they have a long day tomorrow, traveling towards Rivington. Survival's the name of the game, and after one Githyanki ambush too many, everyone takes watch.
And so.
Again, quietly, ]
Astarion?
[ Maybe he's more tired than usual. Or he's gone hunting. She could go for a few more hours yet, if necessary. Maybe she should try Karlach next? ]
[ He doesn't know what it is that's made the dire wolf so interested in him, beyond perhaps some innate ability to sense who among their party desires its company the least. Bosky's presence had also put a damper on any attempt Astarion might have made to nibble on anyone at camp during the night, attentive as he is. Risking the beast's ire had seemed too high a cost to pay for the sake of an easy mark.
(If he's being honest, it's not so much that he minds Bosky's presence or interest than the fact that being even partially responsible for the wellbeing of any creature, great or small, strikes him both as a great worry and a tremendous annoyance.)
One more beat passes before the flaps of his tent part, and he emerges looking just a little bleary. He's not naturally a particularly heavy sleeper, but they've had a less-than-easy go of it with the Githyanki on their tails. ]
My turn already? [ he hums as he gets to his feet, taking a moment to straighten out his shirt and fix his hair (the rare bit of preening he's done in front of anyone else, rather than appearing already in fine form). ]
I suppose I ought to be grateful to receive such a lonely summons from such a pretty mouth. It does soften the blow.
[ He casts his gaze once around the camp before returning his attention to Tav, and offering a conciliatory hand in Bosky's direction. Best to stay on his good side, after all, as well as Tav's. ]
Nothing creeping about out there, then?
me and ladies who have a lot banking on animal imagery π€ your fancy lads
[ Bosky leaps at the invitation, butting his forehead into the slack of Astarion's fingers — there's no crumb of affection the beast turns away when it's offered, though he has, at least, gotten better at chewing on fingers. (At almost hip-height, nobody had thought the habit particularly reassuring. Save, of course, Laezel.)
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
"fancy lads" truly the nicest possible way of describing them
[ Her first response prompts a sort of scoff, half oh, you and half oh, please, but nothing more explicit given that he can't really argue the point. They'd all cottoned onto him annoyingly quickly, after all.
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch β save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing β he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It'sβ almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick β that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
βWho should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
[ Don't I always look like this? she wants to say, but that gets locked behind her teeth. Grace, in all things, like the beasts and the trees and the green: her own personal creed, really, defined and refined again over time. In another life, perhaps she would have been a druid. Halsin, and even Jaheira, at least seem to think so, but that's such a silly thing to think. No animal escapes what it really is. Something always survives.
Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding β not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what followsβ
He's come to know that look well β the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns β which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over β is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
[ Room left between ideas of hurling blunt objects, nightly jump scares, and this curious circling around Astarion with the spring-loaded readiness to jump snapping jaws, to surmise it's not his first prowler with malicious intent. To an extent, he'd meant it: some like Fades don't make great conversation partners between the ear-bleeding shrieks, and others are too busy telling him what a piece of shit he is while watching him sleep. Astarion? He's got flair, as threat assessments go. ]
Mm, a good rule of thumb to leave untested. [ The world might be a better place if everyone just started melting into goo (read: not knowing what the invitation rule looks like, pulling from the bag of creative options) at particular invasions of privacy. ]
You know, in all this I'm a little impressed you haven't stopped to ask if you're my type at all.
Well, you didn't think you were going to get away without answering for cliches, did you?
[ It's still a somewhat canned response in the sense Mat still suspects Astarion's interest isn't just interest and he's going to be a git playing shell games about it. As a fellow shell game git, the art of saying little with a lot is neither objectionable on its own nor unappreciated. Dare he admit it, he's found it sporting fun, rousting a smile or two out of him over the course of their play.
The thing about games of such nature, though, is most of the time they're only really fun if everyone is on the same page. A bit of a blend of hypocrisy and self-awareness in action: he hasn't so much as uttered the word ta'veren, would not claim it, would pretend not to know it, but if he felt an inkling someone were only interested in a Q&A regarding the part of him he had not asked to be or could do anything about, that really had nothing to do with him besides its benefit or disadvantage to others, he'd have bit a vampire on the tail and scampered off long ago.
It's possible he's off the mark as far as presumptions go, but in this he doesn't mind being the side pressed to show a little more of his hand. ]
I can entertain conversations for all sorts of reasons, and I wager more than two reasons exist to talk to you, but...
It was something of a scientific inquiry, yeah. There's a lot of grey area between mindless beasts and substance to someone with a name that has too many vowels and sounds like something you'd name a duke's donated statue. Or a constellation. Or something else grandiose.
[ Or a Forsaken, tbh, but let's keep the Asmodeans and the Astarions in their separate corners... ]
[ Ultimately, the fact that he's willing to answer so many questions is because it's not a game most β if any β will engage with at all. He's spent two centuries hiding what he is, knowing that anyone who found out would likely immediately lunge for the nearest stake (not that he could really blame them). That Mat's reaction isn't hostility but rather curiosity is a welcome change of pace, a little gift in and of itself.
To a certain extent, it's also just the novelty of freedom, with the tadpole in his head severing him from his master's influence and allowing him to do damn near whatever he likes without having to worry about luring victims back to the manse. Even just weeks earlier, Mat would have been a mark.
But that's a rather boring and all-too-earnest explanation, so he doesn't have any intention of saying any of that out loud. ]
I think I prefer a constellation over a statue of some pompous rich man.
[ He's had quite enough of pompous lords for a lifetime, thank you, unless it's to part their gold from their pockets. ]
All right, but here's one for you: would that still be your pick if you, as the subject, were being honoured as a pompous rich man? With a hideous feathered cap immortalized, forever, let's say. For argument's sake.
[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]
[ Needless to say, Rand's answer β which basically amounts to a shrug β comes as a surprise to Astarion, though he's hardly inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth. Still, as the former shepherd approaches the little copse that Astarion's picked out, what the vampire spawn offers is not an immediate segue into a meal (will wonders never cease) but: ]
Last chance to change your mind, petal.
[ He keeps his tone light, the implication being (he hopes) that the warning is more of a courtesy than anything else. (Which it is, in the end, given that things will really only go badly if Astarion loses control and tries to drain the poor boy completely, in itself an outcome he'd rather avoid. He's aware of other adverse effects β namely, about a day of mild wooziness β but that is, at least to his mind, a relatively low cost of doing business.) Still, he beckons the other man over from where he sits in the shade of a tree. ]
I promise I won't take offense if you do. Well, maybe a little.
on the grand scale of things, concerns about or adjacent to his well-being rate on the lowest possible rung. they are often not even on the ladder. he cares about the potential of hurting astarion's feelings quite a lot, and what might happen to himself comparatively very little. he has a knee-jerk aversion to the notion of being bitten, of course, as much as any other person. but he did in fact ask for proof, and he can't very well complain about the way astarion chooses to furnish that proof. not if he agreed to it, anyway. and there is a non-zero chance that astarion really is having him on. and if he isn't, well...
he knows enough of astarion, even if it isn't much, to believe that the vampire(?) isn't going to deliberately be hurting him here. maybe not even inadvertently β though it's hard to imagine a bite not being, at bare minimum, a trifle uncomfortable. and that's fine, is the thing. if rand wants his curiosity sated, and he does, then he can bear a little risk or a little discomfort for it. if it's worse than that, then so much the better that it was only him.
all this to say, he has plenty of time on his walk over to consider. so by the time he ducks under some low-slung branches and tosses himself into a sprawl near astarion, he's already wearing an easy smile. ]
Are you trying to talk me out of this already? I thought the demonstration was your idea.
[ Not that he'd ever admit as much to Rand's face, but that selflessness is a trait he finds shocking in how earnest it is, in how totally devoid it is of pretension. Even to the small extent they're familiar with each other thus far, he thinks any joke he'd likely make on Rand's nature would backfire by virtue of being proven true. To wit, the expression he wears as he arrives is halfway between amused and bemused. Were he anyone else, he might try to disguise his disbelief, butβ well, it hardly seems necessary. ]
You do make it terribly difficult to argue with you, [ he says, in lieu of pointing out that they wouldn't be here at all were it not for Rand's own curiosity. (He also, graciously, forgoes adding, it's like arguing with a stone.) ]
I suppose I owe you a little further explanation, seeing as you're the source of my next meal. You see, I can sustain myself on the blood of beasts β deer, boars, rabbits, the like β but ... it's like water. A human could live on water alone for some time, but it wouldn't truly stem hunger, would leave you weak. Now, I won't die, without human blood, but even just a taste of it β I can think more clearly. Be better. More useful.
[ He pauses a moment, largely to try to gauge whether or not Rand believes any of it (funny, really, he usually only needs to be so concerned when telling a lie, and yet, here, telling the truthβ), before continuing: ]
Well, if you're ready ... it'll only hurt for a moment. [ Then, almost as an afterthought: ] I'll be gentle.
[ there's the unfortunate but very real chance that rand would take any comments about his own mulish hardheadedness as a point of pride, if not a compliment. two rivers folk are famed for their stubbornness; and even if rand isn't a two rivers man by birth, he is one by upbringing. that has to count for something, he thinks. it has to count. whatever else he may be, by birth or destiny, the two rivers will always be home.
(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least β the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite β everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck β so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand β sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn β brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
Edited (lord god this got long dslkfj) 2023-11-02 00:01 (UTC)
[ Sincere, rueful, fond β Astarion can't begin to understand any of it, or perhaps he's simply unwilling to confront his metaphorical reflection in the face of such traits, lest it dig up his weakness for that brand of heroism. He's long buried that part of him, not just for his childhood predisposition for tales of bravery β strange that he should remember that, and so little else β and for the punishment he'd incurred the one time he'd indulged it after being turned. (A full year sealed inside a tomb, starving but unable to die, months spent scratching at the stone around him until his fingers bled. There's nothing, no one, for which he'd suffer that again.)
But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangsβ and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarionβ
βfrom the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects β the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting β but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered β had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and thenβ
(βtoo much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken andβ)
βwhen he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
[ unsure of what to expect, rand breathes in sharply when he feels that cold spark of pain at his neck. for half a second, he thinks it feels terrible; but then it dulls, growing less unpleasant, and a shiver runs down his spine. he doesn't exactly relax against astarion's hand, but he's less tense sooner than he would've expected.
and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be β and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood β that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is β poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that β he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]
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βforbade.
But, more importantly: ]
In an hour, then.
[ It's a blessing that she chooses the place, as it occurs to him fairly late in their back and forth that he hadn't really thought through what they'd do should she agree. The suggestion gives him something to do β namely, pack a small basket, which triggers a couple of warring instincts within him almost immediately. The first problem is what to bring β what won't seem like he's trying too hard while demonstrating that he has put some thought into this. (He settles on a bottle of wine, Blingdenstone Blush, and a few apples; it's too early for lunch β and arguably too early to be drinking, really β and it seems like enough to mark effort, given that he can't have any of it, anyway.) The second is just how much of a show to make of it; to point it out would signal desperation, but also invite acknowledgment; to ignore it would help him seem more nonchalant, but allow the praise he so craves to pass by.
Ultimately, he chooses not to say anything about it, instead simply getting to his feet and raising a hand in greeting when he notices her arriving. (He's changed into a fresh shirt, distinguished by a tiny bit of filigree around the collar.) ]
Hello again, petal. Fresh as a daisy now, are we?
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(some secrets, she has learned over time, deserve the extra protection from outside interference.)
daylight speckles through the trees, beams off lakewater, from where she draws nearer. she can't deny the locale had been a deliberate, if not subconsciously deliberate, choice; common as sunlight must be to him now, it's bright here, refracted off the crystalline water. perfect for people like them, who have doused themselves in shadow for so long that they've forgotten the touch of something warmer. (it's wishful, fanciful thinking that it might help them melt it from their bones — but it's no accident, either, that she's opted for leathers that shine silver, today. another new, small change.)
a floral, soapy scent does, poetically, seem to subtly trail her steps, growing only minimally stronger once she's come to a pause in front of him. ]
I didn't want to tempt you with a perfume made from blood and death. I know that's your preferred fragrance.
[ a faint curl to her mouth follows, a touch of good humor that would be easy to miss for less perceptive eyes — like a peek of light through a curtain, subdued and soft. the basket hasn't escaped her sharp notice nor what its effort implies — he'd been more serious than she'd assumed, when he'd mentioned wooing — but her eyes fixate elsewhere, attention tunneled down to the latticework of his collar. her fingers follow her stare, reaching to rub her thumb over its outline.
it's a careful touch — an intention telegraphed to him, even, as she makes it. purposeful in avoiding brushing skin, though just barely, uncertain of where boundaries have been drawn. one sexual encounter shared with one another from a physical distance does not come with a blanket invitation to touch him freely, after all, to say nothing of how — unexpected this all still feels. ]
You've been busy.
[ an untrained ear might hear it as airy small talk over something so minimal as changing clothes, but there's a curiosity to it she can't deny, a wisp of intrigue woven through. ]
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(On his skin, the faint scent of bergamot, that citrus-y base a lighter choice than one might have expected from him.)
βThe moment ends as though it's pulled from the depths of a pool, breath and time suddenly resume as they break the surface, as his fingers then curl through hers, dropping to their sides as he leads her to the spot he's picked out by the water.
(The sunlight is still a novelty; he's not sure it ever won't be. The warmth of it, the sudden breadth of colors afforded to him, it's all a wonder. It's uncomplicated, too, in a way that whatever this is isn't. It isn't lost on him that she's more careful around him than most would be β more considerate, in a way he's grateful for, even if he doesn't know how to repay that kindness, given that he's only just beginning to adjust to thinking that he deserves it at all.)
Breezily delivered: ]
Busy? Little old me? Hardly.
[ His hand slips away momentarily, as though suddenly aware of the intimacy implied by such a gesture. Not that it'd be so strange, at this point, butβ again, it's new. (Yet another thing that likens him to the nickname she's bestowed upon him: a little bit of hot and cold, as they suss each other out, rather than the more straightforward affection a canine companion would confer.) Still, he turns to look at her again with a sort of expectant air, one that seems at direct odds with the of course you're here, why wouldn't you be air he's aiming for. ]
Busy awaiting the delight of your company, perhaps. [ A beat, and then, somewhat more honestly: ] I was surprised you agreed.
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(in his place, her thumb skates across the wound that decorates the flat back of her hand, more than accustomed to the self-soothing gesture. when you've no one to bring you comfort, you learn to depend upon yourself for it, if not the conviction of your faith. and she is sorely lacking in one of those, in recent times.)
this, too, is equally overt: the intensity that colors his lingering looks, as though he's hoping to crack her open. she supposes she's proven as fickle and resilient against all efforts to do so, not unlike their prized artefact; can't fault him for the attempt to study her, even as it tickles her humor. it's a lonely life, yes, to fail to be understood — but there's a certain pride that emerges, with it, in knowing she's one riddle amongst their party he hasn't managed to fully parse.
now, there's no shying from it, on her end; she meets his stare with piercing directness, unnervingly steady, in how it refuses to skirt away. ]
You should rehearse more believable lies. [ a ghost of self-deprecation worms its way in, sobers her smile. ] I've made for miserable company, lately.
[ (it's hardly designed to invite self-pity. it's merely the truth of the matter, in her period of mourning. even now, she's yet to unpack the full breadth of her grief; doesn't yet have the knowledge to know how deep it must go, with such a large portion of her life denied to her, memories locked up so tightly even astarion's skills would fail to lockpick them free.) ]
But you asked me here all the same, even knowing that. [ in a softer husk, ] Of course I chose to come.
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[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric β to protect, guide, and heal β is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]
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[ what a group they must make, on second thought, dragging their cloud of misery around with them. still, the first iteration of her smile is as weak as a middling illusion — easily dispelled, easily seen through. astarion's defenses may lie with charm, but she's not immune to presenting a front, herself. her sharran brethren, as she recalls them, have always shared the deadly appetites of wolves; one scent of weakness in the air is as tempting as a copper trail of blood, a reason to sink teeth into a vulnerable underbelly once it's exposed. only strength has ever deterred them from tearing into the throats of their own pack.
that self-preserving appearance is so habitual she doesn't quite realize she's fallen into an old trap, as she comes to a slow seat beside him. a respectable distance remains wedged between them — not so wide a chasm that it's impossible to bridge, but not so close as to be certain over whether she should heed her compulsion to close it.
(as with most skittish creatures, she considers the benefit of allowing him to come to her, instead, and rights herself into a more relaxed posture: a recline into soft grass, laying within the sun's caress, as her fingers interlace across her stomach. distance or closeness, he is right — better miserable together, than to be left miserable alone. the company is a balm to the ache that sits inside of her, most days.)
then, almost as though it's an idle observation than one of her astute ones: ] You seem struck by nerves.
[ the second iteration of her smile might be genuine, but perhaps worse, for how its breezy teasing comes at his expense. the energy radiating from him makes him look the part of a novice, in fact, at courting — though she supposes a dependence upon his pretty face had done well to serve him on its own, up until this point. up until her, especially. her booted foot wiggles out, knocks gently into his calf, as her cheek tilts into the greenery to cast a sideways look at him. ]
I can't fathom why. Of the two of us, I'm not the one with a reputation for my bite.
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Perhaps it's excitement, [ he says smoothly, though still lightly enough to be showing a little of his hand. ] I seem you recall you promised me the privilege of choosing my own reward, if I remained on good behavior.
[ But she knows as well as he does that titillation isn't the reason why he's on tenterhooks. He pauses, the line of his mouth briefly twisting as he considers what to say next. It feels less necessary to play coy, somehow, when not shrouded in darkness. And as his lips curl, the rest of his expression seems to unfold, his gaze losing its usual hooded quality to reveal something more openβ something younger than his years. ]
I've never had the pleasure ofβ continuing a courtship, shall we say, [ he offers, his tone calculatedly nonchalant, following a pause. ] Even if I'd wanted to, before, it was hardly in the cards. Nothing was mine. [ Then, a quick amendment: ] Nothing was for me.
[ Another pause. This isn't really a conversation he wants to have β not just for how closely he guards his secrets, but for making this more about him when she's in the middle of such a maelstrom. ]
I guess the point is that I can be nervous, around you. I know you won't flagellate me for it β beyond telling me I'm acting like a fool.
[ He rolls onto his back, then, checking for the basket (resetting the distance between them, having shown a little of his hand). ]
βCan I tempt you with a drink?
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astarion's love language like https://i.imgur.com/o1ECFXy.jpg
LMAOOOOOO delivered in that cadence exactly π
john mulaney kin
honestly both apt tbh
ur right i wasn't even wrong the first time
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stares into the sky ... i forgot to hit post comment on this for like three days
lmao we've all been there
i'll never live the shame down
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i went nebulously pre-act 3/the city proper but beep me if you want edits!
It's your turn, Astarion.
[ The campfire crackles. Her feet are light, shadow hovering at the edge of his tent. A larger, bolder shadow pushes just-a-step further: the bottom-half of a long, grey maw, and a rounded black nose, dares to part the flaps that seal the entrance shut. Manners, Bosky, comes the low reprimand, and the dire wolf retreats with a displeased whine. Shadowheart's luck, that Bosky's taken such a liking to sniffing and rifling and just being near Astarion's things.
Tav apologizes, of course. She knows that he likes things — his things, particularly — just as they are, without any wolf-shed. But Bosky is still an animal companion, not a fey-spirit familiar, and he has a willy little mind of his own, however stubborn it is.
Slender fingers hook into the scruff of the wolf's neck to stop any more advances. Tav hates waking any of them from rest, sleep or trance, but they have a long day tomorrow, traveling towards Rivington. Survival's the name of the game, and after one Githyanki ambush too many, everyone takes watch.
And so.
Again, quietly, ]
Astarion?
[ Maybe he's more tired than usual. Or he's gone hunting. She could go for a few more hours yet, if necessary. Maybe she should try Karlach next? ]
bosky π₯Ί
(If he's being honest, it's not so much that he minds Bosky's presence or interest than the fact that being even partially responsible for the wellbeing of any creature, great or small, strikes him both as a great worry and a tremendous annoyance.)
One more beat passes before the flaps of his tent part, and he emerges looking just a little bleary. He's not naturally a particularly heavy sleeper, but they've had a less-than-easy go of it with the Githyanki on their tails. ]
My turn already? [ he hums as he gets to his feet, taking a moment to straighten out his shirt and fix his hair (the rare bit of preening he's done in front of anyone else, rather than appearing already in fine form). ]
I suppose I ought to be grateful to receive such a lonely summons from such a pretty mouth. It does soften the blow.
[ He casts his gaze once around the camp before returning his attention to Tav, and offering a conciliatory hand in Bosky's direction. Best to stay on his good side, after all, as well as Tav's. ]
Nothing creeping about out there, then?
me and ladies who have a lot banking on animal imagery π€ your fancy lads
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
"fancy lads" truly the nicest possible way of describing them
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch β save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing β he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It'sβ almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick β that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
βWho should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
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Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
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[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding β not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what followsβ
He's come to know that look well β the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns β which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over β is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
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now that i am sufficiently warmed up a month later, thank you queen
π
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βtaveren.
And ... yes.
[ Not, in fact, the point he intended to make, but he did walk right into it. ]
Though I'm actually not sure if tents and bedrolls are included in that category.
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[ Room left between ideas of hurling blunt objects, nightly jump scares, and this curious circling around Astarion with the spring-loaded readiness to jump snapping jaws, to surmise it's not his first prowler with malicious intent. To an extent, he'd meant it: some like Fades don't make great conversation partners between the ear-bleeding shrieks, and others are too busy telling him what a piece of shit he is while watching him sleep. Astarion? He's got flair, as threat assessments go. ]
Mm, a good rule of thumb to leave untested. [ The world might be a better place if everyone just started melting into goo (read: not knowing what the invitation rule looks like, pulling from the bag of creative options) at particular invasions of privacy. ]
You know, in all this I'm a little impressed you haven't stopped to ask if you're my type at all.
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I'd presumed you wouldn't still be entertaining this conversation if I weren't. Don't tell me this is all for the sake of scientific inquiry?
ty, btw, accidentally deleted my first subject line π₯Ή
[ It's still a somewhat canned response in the sense Mat still suspects Astarion's interest isn't just interest and he's going to be a git playing shell games about it. As a fellow shell game git, the art of saying little with a lot is neither objectionable on its own nor unappreciated. Dare he admit it, he's found it sporting fun, rousting a smile or two out of him over the course of their play.
The thing about games of such nature, though, is most of the time they're only really fun if everyone is on the same page. A bit of a blend of hypocrisy and self-awareness in action: he hasn't so much as uttered the word ta'veren, would not claim it, would pretend not to know it, but if he felt an inkling someone were only interested in a Q&A regarding the part of him he had not asked to be or could do anything about, that really had nothing to do with him besides its benefit or disadvantage to others, he'd have bit a vampire on the tail and scampered off long ago.
It's possible he's off the mark as far as presumptions go, but in this he doesn't mind being the side pressed to show a little more of his hand. ]
I can entertain conversations for all sorts of reasons, and I wager more than two reasons exist to talk to you, but...
It was something of a scientific inquiry, yeah. There's a lot of grey area between mindless beasts and substance to someone with a name that has too many vowels and sounds like something you'd name a duke's donated statue. Or a constellation. Or something else grandiose.
[ Or a Forsaken, tbh, but let's keep the Asmodeans and the Astarions in their separate corners... ]
I had to know where the bar was set.
ofc ofc ππ»
To a certain extent, it's also just the novelty of freedom, with the tadpole in his head severing him from his master's influence and allowing him to do damn near whatever he likes without having to worry about luring victims back to the manse. Even just weeks earlier, Mat would have been a mark.
But that's a rather boring and all-too-earnest explanation, so he doesn't have any intention of saying any of that out loud. ]
I think I prefer a constellation over a statue of some pompous rich man.
[ He's had quite enough of pompous lords for a lifetime, thank you, unless it's to part their gold from their pockets. ]
Do you want me to ask, then? If I'm your type?
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[ Another question for the ages, perhaps: who hears "hey, do you want to come back to my mansion for a good time?" and thinks that's normal? Hello? Probably a mansion that smells like moth balls with exceeding amounts of velvet, too. ]
To tell the truth, I wasn't sure you'd pass muster. You're not what I might've expected.
[ So no, he'd insist Astarion goes against type, if anything.
Knife to his throat... it's not a stretch to say someone like him would've found a village bursting at the seams with eager marks in the Two Rivers, where aside from a rare few, dark hair, dark eyes, and rough working hands prevailed. He'd be a marvel; a shining prince turning every head; gossip on the lips of starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked village girls every which way for months, if not bloody years. Just like the odd visiting outlander, or handsome merchant's son, smiling bored smiles that went unnoticed, stepping around mud puddles in their fine leather riding boots while the girls flocking them trod straight through in their work wear none the wiser.
In the throes of judgmental pettiness from the peanut gallery along with the other completely forgotten lads, Mat in his younger years might've gleefully splashed down in a puddle right beside him and begrudged him just a little.
Of course, when perfectly normal, salt-of-the-earth folk wear kind faces and commit monstrous acts, and the people he loves turn out to be the boogeymen he grew up being taught to avoid, and he, himself, wrestles with an ugliness streaking through him...
Well. There's room to reconsider what makes people worth knowing. ]
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sad pearl clutching for every backstory nesting doll opened
the ol' "misery matryoshka"
slaps coffin, this bad boy can fit so much suffering
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βdragonmount.
Last chance to change your mind, petal.
[ He keeps his tone light, the implication being (he hopes) that the warning is more of a courtesy than anything else. (Which it is, in the end, given that things will really only go badly if Astarion loses control and tries to drain the poor boy completely, in itself an outcome he'd rather avoid. He's aware of other adverse effects β namely, about a day of mild wooziness β but that is, at least to his mind, a relatively low cost of doing business.) Still, he beckons the other man over from where he sits in the shade of a tree. ]
I promise I won't take offense if you do. Well, maybe a little.
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on the grand scale of things, concerns about or adjacent to his well-being rate on the lowest possible rung. they are often not even on the ladder. he cares about the potential of hurting astarion's feelings quite a lot, and what might happen to himself comparatively very little. he has a knee-jerk aversion to the notion of being bitten, of course, as much as any other person. but he did in fact ask for proof, and he can't very well complain about the way astarion chooses to furnish that proof. not if he agreed to it, anyway. and there is a non-zero chance that astarion really is having him on. and if he isn't, well...
he knows enough of astarion, even if it isn't much, to believe that the vampire(?) isn't going to deliberately be hurting him here. maybe not even inadvertently β though it's hard to imagine a bite not being, at bare minimum, a trifle uncomfortable. and that's fine, is the thing. if rand wants his curiosity sated, and he does, then he can bear a little risk or a little discomfort for it. if it's worse than that, then so much the better that it was only him.
all this to say, he has plenty of time on his walk over to consider. so by the time he ducks under some low-slung branches and tosses himself into a sprawl near astarion, he's already wearing an easy smile. ]
Are you trying to talk me out of this already? I thought the demonstration was your idea.
[ says the person who started it, but okay. ]
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You do make it terribly difficult to argue with you, [ he says, in lieu of pointing out that they wouldn't be here at all were it not for Rand's own curiosity. (He also, graciously, forgoes adding, it's like arguing with a stone.) ]
I suppose I owe you a little further explanation, seeing as you're the source of my next meal. You see, I can sustain myself on the blood of beasts β deer, boars, rabbits, the like β but ... it's like water. A human could live on water alone for some time, but it wouldn't truly stem hunger, would leave you weak. Now, I won't die, without human blood, but even just a taste of it β I can think more clearly. Be better. More useful.
[ He pauses a moment, largely to try to gauge whether or not Rand believes any of it (funny, really, he usually only needs to be so concerned when telling a lie, and yet, here, telling the truthβ), before continuing: ]
Well, if you're ready ... it'll only hurt for a moment. [ Then, almost as an afterthought: ] I'll be gentle.
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(which is why, of course, he will never see it again. but better a home you can cherish in your heart, if nothing else, than none at all.)
but he listens carefully, anyway, to astarion's explanation. he keeps his eyes on astarion's face, nodding, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. it makes sense, in a funny way, why he apparently the needs the blood of a human. at least β the water comparison makes sense. in another way, it makes no sense at all. how should the blood of beasts be any different from human blood? it is all...well. it's all blood, isn't it? but if astarion had told true about the deeds of a person affecting the flavor of their blood, then it sort of adds up. maybe.
more to the point, astarion's giving far too much detail for this to be some elaborate ruse. rand isn't a suspicious person by nature; he's learned it through hard experience. he can't imagine what astarion would get out of lying about this, anyway. there are easier ways to get a taste of rand's blood, willingly even. and the promise of being gentle has a half-smile tugging at his mouth, sincere and rueful and fond all at once. ]
I'm ready.
[ he'll crane his neck if that's what astarion moves in to bite β everything he knows about vampires suggests they prefer the neck β so it's easier to get to. and as for the taste,
how to describe the nature of a ta'veren such at this one, of the dragon reborn? on the one hand, there's rand β sweet-natured, inclined to quiet living, loyal to a fault, stubborn as stone, quick to put himself between others and harm, and slow to admit the harm he takes. but on the other hand there's the dragon reborn β brimming with channeling potential, bright with the searing Light that has filled his veins time and again, and will yet until he dies. he burns like the sun, but there's the aftertaste of something wrong and rancid, the slow build of poisoned saidin from repeated exposure. and there's something else too. there's lews therin, faintly, and previous lives fainter still. but lews therin kinslayer saw the utopia around him crack and dissolve into a drawn-out and brutal war, was betrayed and did betray until some of those he loved best turned to the shadow, and the end of his life was so steeped in madness and blood and anguish that the echoes shape into nightmares that shake rand awake most nights.
how much of that translates into flavor for astarion? hard to say. but rand al'thor is likely to taste memorable, if nothing else. ]
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But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangsβ and bites.
For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarionβ
βfrom the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects β the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting β but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered β had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and thenβ
(βtoo much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken andβ)
βwhen he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]
Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.
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and he isn't so lost to numbness that he misses that flinch. rand has, of course, no way of knowing what it is that astarion can taste in him. but he knows enough about what he is, and what he was, and what he will be β and astarion has so thoroughly explained just what it is that determines the taste of blood β that he can begin to guess. the thoughts remain hazy, half-formed, while astarion drinks his fill; and, in truth, a part of him needs to concentrate on not channeling, by accident, in this moment. his control is β poor, at the best of times. his control is worse when he's hurt or threatened.
but he isn't hurt, not really, and he refuses to entertain the idea of astarion as a threat. blood-drinker he may be, but friendly acquaintance he remains. friendly enough that rand would never, ever forgive himself for slipping and hurting him, no matter how accidental.
so it's a relief when astarion pulls away without incident. he breathes out, slow, raising a hand to his neck. he finds the punctures by touch, pressing his palm to his throat, and keeps his eyes on astarion. in some ways, what he sees is what he expects to see. the fact that astarion had flinched when biting him; how abruptly he draws back; the rapid breathing; the plain surprise. how long until that surprise becomes revulsion? can't be long, surely. ]
You don't have to thank me. [ he tests a small shake of his head, is pleased when it doesn't make him too dizzy. ] I suppose I don't have any reason to disbelieve you now.
[ rand holds himself as if braced for a blow to land at any moment. more than that β he knows one is coming, and has accepted it as inevitable. for the best, even, you might say. it wasn't so long ago that he walked away from his loved ones as safer without him, and more recent happenings have done little but exemplify the danger that always circles him. it doesn't occur to him to feel dismay about the confirmation that astarion really is some kind of vampire, because it doesn't really change rand's perception of him. and because rand grew up on more frightening tales of mad channelers and dragons who broke the world than vampires gobbling up naughty children. ]
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wobblehands at mashup world au history
"that's me" lirl
he is trying so haRD
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